The Void
by Kantrix Gabriel
Summary: A witch in the woods does not take kindly to being interrupted.  Teen!chester deafblind!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first published SPN fic, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated ^_^**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kripke and gang. I'm just playing with them. **

John knew there was a witch somewhere in the woods – the rampant curses and impossibilities in town were hard to miss. There was evidence that she was going for the complete traditionalist package, even. Sky-dancing around the fire in the woods while she sacrificed animals to the dark gods, that kind of thing.

He found the middle-aged woman in a clearing, not a stitch of clothing covering her wrinkled old body. Rust covered symbols covered her arms and legs, a small sacrificial fire crackling in the middle of the clearing. She was chanting loudly as he approached, her voice easily muffling his near silent steps.

She was hunched over something, her back to John. He raised his gun, aiming for what his youngest had come to call a "mercy shot." Sammy had watched _Bambi _at one of his school-friend's houses and ever since the hunts had to be "humane." No, he wasn't here to witness this one, but that didn't mean his little voice wasn't whining in John's head as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet passed through her skull like a knife through hot butter, and she crumpled. John approached her slowly, eyes darting around the clearing for a possible partner or familiar. He reached for her pulse, just to be safe.

He didn't realize until he was sure she was dead. He just hadn't looked to see what she'd been hunched over.

"Dean!" he cried, panic seizing as he kicked the old hag's body out of the way and knelt by his son's prone form.

Dean was blinking hard into the night, slowly levering himself back to a sitting position. The leaves of the forest floor clung to his hair, his shivering form covered in dirt smudges and a healthy splash of the same rusty liquid that had covered the witch.

"You alright?" John asked, voice cautious as he watched his son's hands flex against the forest floor.

Dean didn't reply, eyes blinking rapidly in the darkness. He raked a hand angrily across them, his breath sharpening as he struggled to clear invisible cobwebs from his face.

"Dean?"

Between frantic blinking and scrubbing John could see something different in the glint of Dean's eyes. Something was wrong.

John pulled the boy's hand away, reaching to tip his head up for further inspection.

Dean jumped like he'd been bitten, rapid breathing turning into panicked gasps as he scrambled blindly back.

"What's wrong?"

He tried again, hands on his son's shoulders. Dean flailed backward once more, scrambling awkwardly in the dirt.

"Get the fuck away from me," Dean growled, face twisted in fear. At the words he paused, whole body trembling as he pressed a hand to his throat.

"What?" he asked, voice louder than before. "Hello?"

John reached forward and touched his son's shoulder once more.

Dean flinched away.

"Damnit Boy," John growled, setting his gun aside. "What did she do to you?"

This time John locked his hands around Dean's shoulders for real. His grip left no room for escape.

His panicked mind forgot exactly who he was dealing with.

"Get off," Dean growled, arms flailing as he struggled to find purchase on the slick forest floor. After several forceless wiggles his foot found a solid root and his body bucked properly, nearly tossing John across the clearing.

"Shit," John cussed, dodging wild limbs as he struggled to get Dean under control. Even panicking the pre-teen had good instincts and his off-kilter punches still packed a lot of power. His desperate bucks alone were enough to cause John more than his fair share of struggle.

But the elder Winchester had strength, size, and relative calmness on his side as he finally pinned Dean into the ground.

For a moment the boy coughed into the dust, his desperate struggles bruising only himself. John opened his mouth to try and reason with the boy.

"FUCK," Dean screamed, voice odd as his struggles began to slow. Another noise slowly crawled from his throat – a noise that had nothing to do with speech. John felt his stomach roll with fear as his eldest whimpered –WHIMPERED - into the dirt. His struggles ceased slowly, sinking as he gave in to the hold.

"Son, listen to me," John commanded, grip never faltering. "You need to calm down."

For a few tense moments they sat there, John perched on top of his eldest effectively pinning the boy to the ground. Dean shook and whimpered into the dust, his clearly petrified figure too different from the sarcastic, self-proclaimed chick-magnet that John had brought into the woods not two hours previous.

"Dean?" John asked again, slowly easing the weight off his son's arms. "Can you hear me?"

As the weight lessened, Dean quieted. John's hands lifted slowly, cautiously off his back.

"Dad?" he asked, voice muffled in the dirt.

John reached out and touched Dean on the shoulder again, waiting as the boy jumped back from the contact. This time he paused, hand hovering just over Dean's arm. Dean slowly pushed up onto his side and groped forward. It took a moment for his trembling white fingers to wrap around his father's.

"Dad?" he asked again, eyebrows pinched, "'zat you?"

"Yeah," John answered with the softest hint of relief, "It's me."

"Dad?"

All hint of a smile disappeared as Dean's quivering voice echoed around the clearing.

"Dad?"

John slowly pulled Dean's hand to his face, nodding into the boy's palm.

Dean drew a shaky breath, struggling to a sitting position.

"What the fuck is going on?" Dean muttered, reaching his free hand up toward his father's face. John stilled under his touch, waiting as Dean's fingers roamed clumsily over his features. One finger pressed too sharply in his eye, another nearly picking his nose, a third finding the old battle scar by his ear.

"I don't know," John answered as Dean's fingers roamed over his lips, and Dean's hands flew back like they'd been burned.

His face crumpled in a frown as he put his fingers over his own mouth.

"I'm talking?" he asked, the words muffled through his fingers.

John placed one of Dean's hands beside his head and nodded.

What little color remained in Dean's face drained, leaving little more than a ghost in its wake. The hand next to his father's head slowly slid down to his arm and latched on.

John waited for the scream, the anger, the cussing. He waited for Dean to start badmouthing the old hag in every way possible, and maybe a few new ones of his own invention.

The words didn't come.

Dean sat silently before his father, hand wrapped around his arm in a death grip while his dirt-encrusted body shivered on the forest floor.

John felt the world fall away as he stared into the petrified face of his eldest. He hadn't seen that stricken, petrified face since Dean was a mute little boy in an anonymous hotel room – tear tracks drawn through ash on his cheeks, body too-still as he lay next to his screaming baby brother.

"We'll fix this," John promised, though to whom he isn't sure, and shuffled slowly to his feet. "We will."

He pulled Dean up after him, supporting much of the boy's weight. Dean appeared dizzy and disoriented, hands digging tightly into his father's arm as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

John didn't stop to think how far they were from the Impala or how dark the forest before them was. Without so much as a glance at his fallen sawed-off, John half-led, half-dragged Dean out into the black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kripke and gang. I'm just playing with them. **

As soon as John lay his hands on the Impala, Dean seemed to calm. The boy let out a deep sigh, fingers sliding across the dusty hood. Tension in his limbs seeped away, like air out a balloon, and he leaned onto the solid presence of the car.

John fought back a chuckle of disbelief, nudging his son around the edge of the vehicle. Only Dean could recognize the Impala by touch alone. He went without contest, trailing his hand like a blind man with a cane: across the hood, up along the frame, down the door seam and to the handle. His fingers hooked over the silver handle and curled upward, popping the door open with click and a creak. The sudden give of the opening door caught Dean off guard, though, and it was only John's towering presence that kept the boy on his feet.

"Easy," John coaxed uselessly, feeling Dean tense once more.

He eased Dean into the front seat, making sure all extraneous limbs were safely inside. As soon as the boy's back hit the leather, a soft sigh escaped his mouth and John felt the pressure of his panic lift just a bit.

John pried Dean's fingers from his arm and wrapped them around the inner door handle. Dean took the hint, closing the door as John walked around to the driver's side.

No sooner had John slammed his door shut than he felt Dean's fingers brush his arm. He placed his son's wandering hand on his bicep and started the car.

She rumbled to life and Dean's shaking was lost in the purr of the engine.

By the time they'd reached the highway, Dean's grip had grown lax and by the time they'd reached the hotel he was snoring softly into the seat.

John was still struggling to kick his brain back into action as he parked, listening to Dean's slow and easy breathing. There was nothing here for him to attack, no trail to follow, only his own son as a witness… his apparently _blind _and _deaf _son he might add. It wasn't like he could question the boy, not that the information would do him any good. He'd never been up against a wannabe witch before, let alone a real one of this caliber.

He needed to call someone in on this.

The closest hunter he knew was Bobby Singer. He wasn't John's favorite hunter, but the boys liked him well enough and the old man knew his lore.

Shaking himself out of the daze he'd fallen into, John turned off the engine.

Almost at once Dean began to stir, eyes flickering in the dim light of the streetlamp.

"Dean?" John asked, letting himself hope just for a second that his boy was back. What he would have done to see Dean's confused gaze and hear his offhanded quip.

Instead, Dean flung both hands outward from their lax positions. One hit the door with an audible crack, the other making contact with John's arm.

"You're okay," John said, grabbing his son's hand and waiting for him to calm down.

It took Dean a second to realize what was going on – remembrance flitting across his face as he took a shaky breath and stopped his struggling.

"Good," John muttered, opening his door and edging out. Dean followed clumsily, one hand in his father's, the other pushing along the seats. It took a few minutes for him to step slowly out of the vehicle, stumbling into his father's side.

John wrapped an arm around his son's waist and looped two fingers through a belt loop. With his other arm he drew Dean's left over his shoulders, encouraging him to hold on with a rough squeeze.

The two moved toward the door in a strange sort of half-octopus. Dean hung almost uselessly from his father's side, trying his best to support some of his weight, but mostly just getting in the way. John swung the boy forward without regard for Dean's attempted aid, pausing at the door only long enough to shove his key in the lock.

"Password?" called a voice as the door swung inward.

"Get the door," John responded, dragging Dean toward the bed.

"Dad?" Sammy asked, sawed-off still clutched awkwardly in his hands as he edged forward.

John settled the older boy on the bed, disentangling himself as best possible from the decidedly clingy teen.

"What's going on?" Sammy asked.

"Get the door," John growled, reaching to the bed stand to procure the phone. Dean remained wrapped around one of his arms.

Sammy flicked the safety on his gun and jogged to the door, shutting and locking it. He came back just as fast, leaning his gun against the foot of the bed and nervously examining his brother.

"Take him," John ordered, drawing Sammy to his brother's side with a jerk of his chin.

Sammy sat on the bed next to his brother, nearly as tense as his brother, who jumped at the shift of the bed.

John placed Dean's hand on his brother's shoulder, stepping back and starting to mutter angrily into the phone.

"Dean?" Sam asked, eyes wide as his brother turned half-lidded green eyes his way. Sammy felt himself start to shake under his brother's eerie gaze.

"Dean?" he asked again as Dean's hand slid up his shoulder and to his neck.

Sammy went still as a deer in headlights as Dean's hand brushed up his neck and into his hair. It snagged on the tangles, drawing a frown as he played his fingers through it.

"What's wrong?" asked Sammy, eyes shinning and wet.

"Sammy," Dean said quietly, the slightest smile ghosting across his face.

Shivers wracked Sammy's spine like a million tiny ants on parade. Dean didn't sound like that. The wispy, scared voice coming from Dean's mouth was not right. Even hurting, even low on blood, even feverish with infection he didn't sound like that.

Sammy didn't realize he'd pulled away until Dean started freaking. He waved his hands awkwardly before him, reaching. His eyes blinked viciously, a strange, eerie sound leaking from his throat between deep panicky breaths.

"Sammy," John growled suddenly, his hand catching one of Dean's. "What the hell?"

Dean's rapid breathing started to fade as he wrapped his hands around John's. He shook like a leaf as he sat there on the bed, both hands wrapped around his fathers.

"It's nothing," John muttered into the phone, shooting Sammy a glare. "We'll be there in a few hours."

He grunted his agreement through the phone two or three more times and tossed the phone back onto the receiver.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, eyes boring into Sammy's. The little one stood by the foot of the bed, eyes wide and body stock-still.

"I…"

"Your brother's hurt," John explained, stepping closer so his leg rested against his son's. "He needs your help, and you just stand there?"

Sammy said nothing, eyes cast down to the rug.

"Get everything together," John ordered, pulling Dean to his feet once more. "We're leaving."

"Where are we going?" Sammy asked, voice little more than a whisper.

"Bobby's," John replied, already dragging Dean toward the shower. "You've got ten minutes."

Sammy nodded, stepping out of their way.

Wordlessly he watched his father manhandle his brother into the bathroom and shut the door. For several seconds he continued to stand there, eyes on the door. He just couldn't bring himself to move. It felt like the world was crashing in around him. He wanted Dean. _His _Dean. He didn't care how much of a baby he was being, he wanted Dean.

The sound of running water snapped him out of his daze and sent Sammy scurrying around the room. He gathered their things, tossing whatever he could find into the three duffels they'd brought with them. The sawed-off went into his, along with some clothes and the book he'd been trying to read earlier. His father's research and clothing went into his bag, along with the hidden Jack Daniels that Sammy had seen him smuggle under the bed early in the week. As he was struggling to figure out which side of Dean's bag was the less dirty side, he heard his father beckon.

Cautiously the pre-teen opened the door to the bathroom and handed in a set of more or less clean clothes for his brother, eyes safely behind the wood. John grabbed them without a word, and Sammy backed out into the main room. Disregarding dirty and not dirty piles, he tossed Dean's things into the bag and zipped everything up. He was running a final check around the room when John emerged with a mostly-clean Dean beside him. Without the dirt to obscure his features, Sammy could see just how petrified his brother looked.

"Take everything out into the car," John ordered, pushing Dean onto the bed and leaning down to lace up his boots.

Sammy nodded, breaking his stare long enough to grab the duffels from the bed and the keys from his father. He tossed everything in the trunk, for once not caring how filthy things were back there, and ran back toward the hotel. John met him at the door.

"Get in the back," John ordered, Dean clinging weakly to his side.

Sammy climbed in without a word, scuffling over to the far side as his father approached.

"Keep him calm," John ordered, handing Dean's hand to his brother.

Sammy nodded, fighting a shiver as his father slammed the door. He watched warily as John strode toward the hotel.

Dean leaned back into the seat, his grip light but firm on his brother's arm.

"Dean, what's wrong with you?" Sammy asked, eyes turning cautiously to his brother's.

Dean didn't respond.

"I asked…w-what's wrong with you?"

Again the older boy remained silent, one hand resting on the door to the car, the other on his brother's arm.

Silently, Sammy began to cry. It was just tears at first, soft as they leaked down his face. But soon his breathing caught in sobs and his whole body shook with the force of his fear and confusion.

Dean frowned at the movement, fingers cautiously trailing up Sammy's shoulder, his neck, into his face.

Sammy fought not to balk as his brother stuck fingers into the trails of tears and snot rolling down his face. He watched with watery eyes as Dean let go of the car and grabbed blindly onto his brother, pulling him close.

"'m sorry," the older boy murmured, rubbing Sammy's back as the little one cried into his shoulder. "'m s'rry."

Sammy didn't respond, too busy taking in the familiar comfort of his big brother's hugs when everything else seemed so wrong.

He didn't realize his father was back until the engine rumbled to life. Dean jumped, arms tightening on Sammy's smaller form.

John swung an arm over the back of the seat, using it to leverage his head to the back of the vehicle.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Sammy, voice thick with tears as he peered into his father's tired face.

"He's deaf and blind," John answered, eyes flickering between windows and mirrors. "As far as I can tell."

Sammy choked on his words for several seconds, struggling to understand exactly what his father was telling him.

"How?"

"The witch," John answered, shifting. The Impala rumbled forward to the edge of the parking lot.

Sammy nodded into his brother's arms, hugging a bit tighter as he tried to imagine what it was like. He realized now why Dean was so clingy. He understood why his voice was so wrong.

Fresh tears drizzled down his cheeks as he realized just what he'd done in the hotel room.

As Dean's hand ran a comfortable rhythm across his back, Sam silently vowed to take care of his brother until he was better.

By the time they hit the Iowa State border, he was asleep across his brother's lap.


	3. Chapter 3

:::

3

They pulled into Singer Salvage just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. The normally dusty yard was muddy with recent rain, the rust and debris sharp in the after-rain air.

John cut the engine and turned his attention to the back. Sammy was still curled up across the seat, his head in Dean's lap. The elder boy had one hand on his brother's head, fingers entwined in his floppy hair. Even in sleep Dean seemed unusually tense, forehead wrinkled in apparent thought.

Slowly he stirred, eyes blinking open in the dim light of the car.

For a moment he looked so normal that John couldn't help himself.

"How you doing, kiddo?"

For a handful of seconds there was silence. Dean just sat there, blinking. John could almost fool himself into thinking the spell was just a hoax. He could almost believe the curse had worn off.

But Dean was starting to panic, breath coming in short gasps as he shook his head. One hand came up to rub his eyes, the other snagged in his brother's hair.

Sammy stirred, snuggling closer in a way that Dean would normally have teased him over.

Instead Dean paused, hand moving cautiously in the floppy rats' nest. His panic seemed to ease, his hand coming back down to rest against his brother's back.

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his sleep deprived eyes.

"Sammy," he called. "Wake up."

Sammy stirred, his movement making Dean tense even more than before.

"Sammy," John called once more, his voice sharp. "Get up."

The youngest Winchester mumbled something into his brother's stomach and brought a hand up to rub at his eyes.

"Sammy," John barked once more, satisfied when the boy's eyes finally flew open and locked on his father's. "We're here," John added, climbing out of the car.

The car door slammed shut behind him, making Dean jump spectacularly. Sammy tried to sit up to see what was going on, but Dean's hands were firm on his head and shoulder.

"De~an," Sammy groaned, trying to shove his brother's hands away.

"S'mmy?" Dean asked, voice louder than was necessary in the quiet car.

Sammy froze.

"Sorry," he muttered, laying back into his brother's lap. It wasn't like he could go anywhere anyway.

The door opened and John reached in, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Dad?" Dean asked, reaching one hand out and knocking it into his father's face.

John winced, but let his boy's hand find purchase against his check before he nodded.

Dean nodded back, drawing his hand down his father's neck and shoulder and latching onto his arm.

"That's it," John coaxed, untangling Dean's other hand from Sammy's hair.

Once free, Sammy sat up and slid back along the seat. His eyes were all for his big brother as John helped the confused teen out of the car.

"Lock her up," John ordered, tossing Sammy the keys before he braced Dean against his side and began moving toward the house.

:::

"Find anything?" John asked as he set Dean down on the couch.

"Not yet," Bobby answered, his figure looming in the doorway. "I put in a call to one of the local spell hackers, though. She should be by tomorrow to see what she can do."

John nodded, untangling himself from Dean as best possible.

"How's he doing?"

"He's dealing," John replied simply, beckoning Sammy forward with a wave.

Bobby nodded, watching as Sam took his brother's hand. John wrestled his arm free, leaving Dean to trample his hands over Sammy's face.

"What have you looked into?" asked John, already eyeing the book in Bobby's hands.

"Just the mainstream Book of Shadows' – stuff you can buy in stores. I'm about to dive into the more eclectic stuff."

John nodded, turning back to his boys for a quick second.

"Sammy," he called, "keep an eye on your brother."

"Yessir," Sammy replied, his eyes wide and nervous between his brother's fingers as he watched the hunters retreat into the back parlor.

:::

"Okay," Sammy said, turning back to his brother. "Keep an eye on you. That couldn't be too hard, right?"

Dean, predictably, said nothing.

Sammy nodded to himself, gazing sadly around the room as best he could between his brother's curious fingers. He found himself automatically looking for something to do, something to keep himself entertained.

Almost immediately he felt guilty. What was he doing, looking for something to do while his brother was hurt?

"Well, this is exciting," he quipped weakly as his brother's hands drew back from his face. Sammy sighed, watching his brother's shaking fingers slide down his arm and wrap around his wrist. Normally Sammy was the expert on what his brother was thinking, but this time he was at a loss. There were no eye signals to read, no cocky rambles to interpret. All that remained was this still, silent kid who was clingier than Sammy at his sickest.

It was eerie.

"Well…" Sam started again, looking quickly around the room - anything to relieve the awkwardness. "What are we supposed to do now?"

No answer.

Not that he'd expected one, really. He really, really could have used one, though. This was Dean's job: entertainment. Dean could find them something to do if they were reduced to absolute silence by a hungover father in the restraints of the rattiest motel in motel history.

But chances were good that Dean had something else on his mind right now. Maybe he'd keep himself busy with his own thoughts? Assuming he had any, that was. Then again, Sammy really didn't want to think of what kind of things Dean could be thinking about to keep himself busy.

So there wasn't much he could do for Dean right now. But maybe he could help with the research? It would let him sit on the couch if his brother needed something.

Reaching back, he grabbed a hardcover from the nearest pile of books.

Naturally it wasn't in English. That wasn't going to help them any.

Helpfully enough, the only stacks he could reach from his position on the couch seemed to be written in a dead language of some sort.

Beside him, Dean shifted impatiently.

Sammy looked back, smiling at the small movement.

It made Dean seem so much more like himself. He _never_ sat still. Sam couldn't remember any time in his short ten-year lifespan in which Dean was content to sit quietly. If he wasn't pacing the room or shuffling through papers he was cleaning weapons or playing solitaire or throwing knives or pegging his brother with popcorn kernels or something. Even just sitting there, fingers twisting away at the fabric of his button-up, it was like he'd come to life.

He was probably incredibly bored, Sammy realized suddenly. Why wouldn't he be, really? He was just sitting there in the dark. Even Dean had to run out of dirty thoughts sooner or later.

So what to do with a deafblind brother? Especially when you have no way to communicate with him.

Suddenly Sammy remembered a movie they'd caught on TV last year while they were waiting for their dad to come home. It had been about a little deafblind girl who lived on a plantation. She was practically feral by the time her teacher appeared and taught her to "talk" by signing letters into her hand.

Oh what Dean would do to him if he knew Sammy was comparing him to a little girl.

But it could… Neither of them knew sign language, but they did both know how to read and write. Maybe that could work?

Sammy grabbed one of the nearby books and placed it squarely on his brother's lap.

Dean frowned, his free hand moving from the tatters of his shirt to run over the cover of the book. He felt up and down the unbound pages, even flipped through it, head tilted slightly in confusion.

Sammy took the hand Dean had wrapped around his arm and spread it open, palm up.

Dean froze at the movement, sightless eyes shifting toward Sammy.

Fighting the shiver that shook his spine, Sammy slowly traced the letter B into his brother's palm.

Dean frowned as Sammy followed B with O, O, and K. Sammy laid his brother's hand on the cover of the book, then drew the letters again - slow and exaggerated across Dean's calloused palm.

Dean paused suddenly, eyes wide as he whispered: "book."

Sammy placed Dean's palm to his face as he'd seen his father do, and nodded.

Dean's face lit up as Sammy guided his hand the nearest easily identifiable object: his shoe.

S-H-O-E he wrote into Dean's palm before guiding his hand over the top of the grimy brown sneakers. S-H-O-E.

"Shoe," Dean replied, his voice loud in excitement.

Sammy grimaced at the volume, nodding into his brother's palm. But he'd done it. He could talk to his brother!

Kind of.


	4. Chapter 4

:::

4

So it turned out that being able to write the names of things into his brother's hand was not the most effective form of communication. Not a huge surprise, really.

It was painfully slow, for one. Then there were similarities between letters, which caused no end to confusion and made the process even longer. 'M' and 'n,' for example, never failed to confuse Dean. This meant Sammy had to write things over and over again until he understood. This could take _ages_.

Then Sammy started trying to put words together. This was an even bigger bee's nest than he could have anticipated. How could he indicate spaces? What about periods or question marks? Or better yet, apostrophes?

Dean, for his part, seemed to be taking the frustration rather well. Several times he'd come to the point of muttering cusses, which was all well and fine. It almost made Sam forget there was anything wrong with his brother. He could easily fall into the trap of thinking this was just some game they were making up to keep themselves entertained in the dark hotel room without annoying Dad.

Then Dean started making the Noise.

The Noise was a sound that started at the back of Dean's throat and bled forward out of his mouth when he was frustrated. There was no form to the sound, no shape that sounded like this letter or that sound. He didn't seem to know he was making it, honestly. It reminded Sammy of the way Bobby's dogs growled. Maybe that was why it bothered him so much.

So he would back off when he heard it start, letting Dean's frustrations fade a bit. It worked for the first few times, but Dean was clearly getting sick of Sammy ignoring him.

Finally, as Sammy gave up trying to spell 'how are you feeling?' into his palm, Dean stopped being complacent.

Before Sammy could properly withdraw, Dean pulled his palm open and started drawing letters of his own there.

Sammy missed enough letters that '-HAT/S/-RO-G-' didn't mean anything to him.

Mimicking his brother's earlier motion for repeat, drawing a circle again and again in the palm, Sammy realized firsthand just how hard this was.

Dean frowned, but went at it again. This time he went painfully slow, conveniently holding Sammy's palm up at an angle that the younger boy could see as well as feel.

It helped. The first word was clearly 'WHAT'S,' and the last mark a question mark. The rest was easy to put together.

Dean turned his palm out, waiting.

Sam froze, mind reeling. How was he supposed to explain? It wasn't Dean's fault he was making the weird noises. They just creeped Sammy out, was all. It wasn't Dean's fault. He just—

Dean banged his palm against Sammy's, a slight noise of frustration escaping his mouth as well.

Sammy sighed, taking his brother's palm and beginning to write. Going slowly, finger pressing firmly into his brother's palm, Sammy spelled out 'YOU/RE/MAKING/SOUNDS.'

Dean paused, head cocked.

And through some miracle, grabbed Sammy's palm and wrote back 'SOUNDS?'

"Sammy, what are you doing?"

Sammy jerked at the sound, eyes rising to meet his father's.

"Trying to talk with Dean," he answered quickly, eyes flicking back to his brother. Dean was frowning, but otherwise unmoving. He still had a strong grip on his brother's wrist.

"How?" asked John, stepping closer to the couch.

"Um…" Sammy said, turning back to his brother.

Slowly, painstakingly, Sammy drew the letters 'DAD/S/HERE.' into his brother's waiting hand.

Dean cocked his head, one hand reaching out to his right, hand waving uncertainly in the air.

Sammy caught his waving arm and directed it up to their father.

Dean jumped at the contact, but smiled slightly as his fingers brushed familiar flannel sleeves.

John smiled, his eyes only slightly shinier than usual.

"God job, kiddo," he said, clapping an enormous hand over Dean's and looking up at Sammy.

Sammy found himself fighting a blush, eyes ducking back to the worn fabric of the old couch.

"Now see if you can't get him to the kitchen table," John added, patting Dean's hand and standing up. Dean's hand slid back to the top of the couch.

"By the time you two get there dinner should be ready."

"Yessir," Sammy answered automatically, already reaching for his brother's hand.

He traced the words "dinner time" into his brother's palm, waiting to make sure Dean understood.

His brother nodded.

The next string of words was, unsurprisingly, too long. Sammy realized it almost as soon as he had started with "Dad said."

Dean frowned, motioning for a repeat.

Sammy paused, reworked the phrase in his mind, then tried again.

'WE/GO/TO/TABLE' he wrote slowly, mindful of his brother's expression.

Dean's frown faded, eyes widening and body tensing ever so slightly as he nodded.

"Okay," Sammy said, standing up and moving in front of his brother. "We can do this…"

Taking Dean's arms, he guided his brother slowly to his feet.

Almost immediately Dean stumbled, grip almost too tight on Sammy's wrists. Even just standing in one place he swayed slightly, clinging onto his baby brother for balance. He wasn't weak, Sammy noticed. Dean had no trouble standing on his own power, he was just incapable of balancing on his own.

Good. Sammy was reasonably sure he couldn't carry his big brother into the kitchen anyway.

Backing up, Sammy gently drew his brother forward a stumbling step.

To his merit, the older boy didn't fall. He ended nearly bruising his brother's wrists with sheer panicked force, but he didn't fall.

Sammy waited until he had caught his breath, then, slower this time, drew Dean forward.

The older boy came quietly, more or less without issue.

Sammy smiled, nodding. They could totally do this.

Only five gazillion steps to go.

:::

By the time they got to the table Bobby had just finished throwing together some omelets. Sammy got Dean into a seat with relatively little trouble and pulled a chair close enough that he could sit with Dean still gripping his left arm.

"How you boys holdin' up?" Bobby asked, spooning a generous helping of the yellow stuff onto a plate.

"Okay," Sammy answered, eyeing the plate before him suspiciously. It contained a pile of mostly cooked eggs filled with bits of green pepper, mushroom, cheese, and olives. It wasn't fine cuisine, but not bad. Sam had expected cereal or something simple, honestly.

"Help Dean figure out what to do, will you?" Bobby asked, landing a plate in front of him.

Sammy nodded, leaning over and grabbing Dean's fork.

"Did you and Dad find anything?" Sammy asked, carefully writing the letters for "fork" into his brother's hand.

"Not yet," Bobby answered, watching the boys with curious eyes as he sat down with a plate of his own. "But an acquaintance of mine is coming down tomorrow to see if she can help."

"Really?" Sammy asked, putting the fork in his brother's asking hand.

"Yeah. If anyone can recognize a spell, it's her," Bobby offered. "But in the meantime your Daddy and I will keep looking."

"He's not coming to breakfast?"

"Won't take his head out of the books long enough," Bobby explained with an exasperated sigh.

"Oh."

Dean now situated, Sammy reached for his own fork to shovel food down. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first taste of egg hit. He was halfway through his own food by the time he realized the impossible was happening.

Dean wasn't eating.

Taking his brother's hand, he spelled the simple command: 'EAT.'

Dean shook his head.

Sammy frowned, urging him again.

Dean shook his head again, dropping his fork onto the table.

"He's probably just upset from last night," Bobby supplied.

"This is _Dean,_" Sammy reminded him, looking at the older man like he was nuts. "He's _always_ hungry."

Bobby shrugged.

"Give him some time, kid. He gets hungry enough, he'll eat."

Sammy nodded, going back to his omelet. One eye he kept on shoveling the food down to his growling stomach, the other he kept on his too-quiet brother.

:::


	5. Chapter 5

5

Dean leaned into his brother's shoulder, grateful for the break from their half-assed 'exploration' of Bobby's scrap yard. Dean had really, really not liked the idea of going outside. Sit on the couch in the dark and the silence or stagger around the yard leaning on his kid brother for some semblance of balance? Despite being an all-action-all-the-time kind of guy, Dean would rather have sat around bored out of his mind than stumble around the uneven terrain. This whole thing was beyond freaky and, though he'd never admit it, he preferred to be somewhere he could almost fool himself into believing everything was okay. The feel of Bobby's couch was familiar, the rumble of the Impala comforting, hell, he'd take the scratchy polyester of a hotel bed over the ever-shifting mud and rock of Bobby's backyard.

But, here he was, leaned against his brother somewhere in what he had been told was the scrap yard. He could feel the slight tug of the breeze against his shirt, invisible fingers waving through the short spikes of his hair. Sammy's chest rose and fell beside him, his shoulder moving slightly with what Dean assumed were the turnings of his head. Other than that… nothing. It was like being in one of those black holes they talked about in science class when there weren't any hot girls there to draw Dean's attention. No light, no sound, no nothing: a complete void.

The first few moments after he fell into nothingness were etched vividly into his memory. He thought it was a dream at first – one of those freaky-ass nightmares where it's just you in the darkness searching for someone. For Dean it had usually been Sammy or Dad in the distance, calling his name. Only this time there was no one. He had reached out, swinging his arms through the darkness when he felt the slimy textures of leaves below him, their wetness soaking through his jeans.

Then he remembered. It was so vivid, the memory of the witch pinning him down with her butt-ugly old body. She was half his size, her saggy skin flopping as she fought to press him into the damp earth, but she'd caught him by off guard with some nasty-ass gunk and he'd been too busy trying not to choke to death to properly fight her off.

Suddenly the world had slowed down and he'd been struck by the sharp tang of the wet air, the stench of the rotting leaves, the dull throb of blood in his ears, the face of the wrinkled old hag. He felt his body betray him, laying heavy in the dirt as his senses screamed, mind flipping out as he realized she'd whammied him. He tried to get up, to struggle, to move his pinky finger, but nothing responded to his frantic mental commands. Even as she let go and leaned away, fingers reaching out of his sight lines to procure an earthen pot, he lay helpless. His forehead tingled as she drew her finger across it, swirling and dotting across his skin in some intricate pattern that was completely beyond him. Everything around him faded, drawing back into the distance until he could only really follow the brush of her finger on his face.

There was a retort – a sharp sound that shattered the world around him – then nothing.

He woke to think everything was a dream. What he wouldn't have done for the whole thing to be just some freakily realistic nightmare.

But he could feel the wet leaves below him, the cool air brushing his shirt.

A tap on his shoulder.

"Get the fuck away from me," he growled, or he thought he'd growled it. He felt for his throat, trying to work out why he hadn't said anything. He could feel the buzz of his vocal cords, but he couldn't hear himself speak. He tried to talk, but his voice was lost to the silence that surrounded him. The silence that was framed in darkness – complete and utter darkness.

He panicked. He knew his father would have killed him for it, but honestly, what the fuck else was he supposed to do? His assailant was closing in with some sort of freaky voodoo and Dean couldn't see or hear her. Hell, he couldn't see or hear himself. She took him by the shoulders to force the next dose of her bodily-fluid juice down his throat and he did the only thing he could – he fought.

His Dad had taught him to fight blindfolded, once upon a time. It had been both a terrifying and oddly awesome experience. How cool was it that he could spot a person coming just by the sound of their feet? By the rustle of their clothing? By the rasp of their breath?

Had he been able to hear any of those things, he would have been okay. But no, here he was in the middle of the forest in a black pit of nothingness. He was fighting a witch who he couldn't see, couldn't hear, and who was currently kicking his ass.

Wait.

He weighed twice as much as her, had easily three times her muscle, and now he had his breath back. There was no way in hell she was the one pinning him to the forest floor.

Confusion stilled his struggles as his mind reeled. The hands on his arms were familiar – he knew this hold.

"Dad?" he called, or thought he called. The silence rang in his ears. He tried again. He tried a few more times.

The pressure on his back was gone, but the hand was reaching for him again. He could feel it hovering there, making the hair on the back of his arm stand to attention.

Slowly, painstakingly, Dean reached for it. It took a few frustrating misses for him to locate the massive, calloused palm.

"Dad?" he asked once more, "'zat you?"

He wasn't sure if he'd spoken for sure that time, but then he wasn't sure of anything anymore. He could feel his brain sputtering and spitting as it tried to process as much as possible from the touch of that one hand.

"Dad?" he asked again, no response forthcoming.

It hit him, then. He was asking for a response he couldn't understand. For all he knew his father was probably screaming at him to get up, demanding to know what Dean was tripping on that he'd try to take down his own father.

Assuming this _was_ his father.

Then his hand was moving of it's own accord, guided up to the scratchy side of what must have been a face.

He might have asked who it was, or he might not have. He wasn't sure anymore.

Until the face he was holding nodded. It nodded into his palm.

Yes.

This was Dad.

Dean drew a shaky breath, struggling to sit himself up in some semblance of attention. No slouching, no slacking off – especially not after he'd just tried to beat up his old man.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, though that too could just have been in his mind. He felt his father pushing him upright, helping him back up to the proper soldier's position.

Well, it wasn't like he expected an answer anyway.

So he reached up for his father's face, trying to figure out how angry his old man was. In the movie this always worked for the blind people – just feel the features and you can figure out how a person looks.

Heh, no. Not so easy. All he knew was that there were two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and some scrubble. It wasn't helpful, dammit, it just drove in how useless he was.

Then he drew his fingers over his father's mouth.

It was moving, and it was spewing air.

_Fuck_, was all Dean could think as he brought his fingers back to his own mouth. He felt the question form on his lips, felt them struggle beneath his fingers. The air tickled as it brushed the mud caked on his hands.

His father must have understood because he nodded into Dean's palm.

It was too much. It was too fucking much. His mind froze at the thought that he might be stuck like this forever – he might go through life as a brain without a body. He'd be Spock's brain from the old reruns – no body, just the circuits of a computer to keep his mind alive. Only Dean wouldn't even have a computer to interact with. He'd be all alone in his head. All fucking alone.

He didn't know how long he sat there before Dad hauled him to his feet, supporting him as the darkness spun lazily around. It was surreal, feeling the dizziness without the visuals.

The Impala, though, she made it better. Damn, but the feel of her leather was the best thing that could have happened to him. The rumble of her engine was home. Even if he couldn't hear it, he could close his useless eyes and pretend that everything was okay, as long as she was purring around him.

:::

He nearly killed himself when his father shook him awake. It was just so goddamn disorienting to wake up in the dark, even with his baby around him. His fist hit hard on the frame in his panic, hard enough that he could almost hear it crack in his silence-bound mind. As his father pulled him out of the car, though, all thoughts of his knuckles disappeared. He focused instead on his struggle to keep up as his Dad dragged him across the ever-moving ground. He still couldn't get his balance, not that his father was really giving him the chance to try.

They paused suddenly and Dean fought the urge to ask why. For all he knew they could be in a crowd where his speech – god, how screwed up was his voice? – could draw attention.

Then they were moving again, settling on a lumpy, yet bouncy surface that must have been a bed. He could feel the scratch of cheep sheets beneath his fingers. They were back in the hotel. But was it their hotel? Had they just stopped at the closest place instead of driving all the way back? Had they gone on to meet one of Dad's hunting buddies who knew more about witches?

Shit. Where was Sammy?

This was his first time alone while they went out hunting. He'd been worried about it all day, pacing and fretting and generally being a nervous wreck. The last thing he needed was his family disappearing without a trace.

Dean couldn't help himself as the bed dipped next to him. He jolted back, grip tightening on his father's arm.

Then his father took his hand and put it on a bony shoulder, letting go to disappear off into the darkness.

Dean frowned, fighting the urge to flee as he followed the bony shoulder with his fingers. He hit face, then hair. Long hair, but not long enough to be a girl. Or so he thought, anyway. Also it was tangled and greasy and gross.

And so, so Sammy.

God, he'd never been so grateful for his brother's girly hair.

He felt himself relax, so freaking happy that his brother was here. Now Sammy could stop worrying about protecting the room, could stop worrying if his father and brother would make it back safe. Or alive, at any rate.

Then there was nothing.

The head pulled away from his hand and he was alone, palm floating in the void.

He reached out, calling for his brother. He needed his brother, his father, _somebody,_ right the fuck now.

And damn if he wasn't panicking like a little girl. He could feel his breath catching in his lungs, struggling to squeeze past the terror of being completely and utterly alone.

Then there was a hand in his. He took hold, pulling it close and holding on for dear life as his father – it had to be Dad, right? It was way too big to be Sammy – let it lie in his grip. He struggled to calm the fuck down, to act like the adult he was.

He had only just caught his breath when his father hauled him to his feet, tugging him across the room. It was all he could do to follow, moving as his father's rough hands dictated. He helped peel clothes from his body, clung to the old-people bar and fought down a blush as his father helped him scrub the mud and witch-juice off of his body. He shivered into a towel and a fresh set of clothes, trying to hold onto whatever pride still lingered as he felt his father tying his boots.

Then they were walking again and he was being lowered into the Impala. A small hand took his and he felt the door shut beside him. Latching onto the door he kept a firm hold on his brother's arm, trying to figure out what was going on. Why were they back in the car? Where was Dad? Why wasn't the engine runing? Where were they going?

Then Sammy's arm started jerking up and down.

Dean frowned, turning his attention to the little brat. He felt up to his brother's face, hoping that maybe this time the old TV stereotype would help.

The wet and sticky goop on his brother's face could only mean one thing.

Well fuck, he was crying. Great. Even deaf and blind and Dean was being a pain. Here he was, clinging to people like his life depended on it (which was so not his style, by the way) and not even trying to explain what was happening to his kid brother. Surely Sammy had been asking questions – there was no time when he _wasn't_ asking questions - but this time he wasn't getting answers. He was just watching his brother act like some sort of freak, completely without explanation. No wonder the little brat was freaking out.

Dean groped around until he could get a good hold on Sammy's neck, drawing him in for an awkward half-embrace. Little arms slid around him, correcting for Dean's awkward position. There was suddenly a small person sobbing into Dean's chest and it was all his fault.

"m'sorry," he muttered, trying to still the sobs that wracked Sammy's small frame. He only ever shook like this when he was really bawling his eyes out, "m's'rry."

Time escaped him yet again as he sat there rubbing small circles on his baby brother's back. He wouldn't have known time had passed at all if he hadn't felt the Impala rumble to life around him.

Sammy shifted in his embrace, laying down maybe? Dean wasn't sure.

All he knew for sure was that not long after Sammy settled, his breath settled into the slow rhythm of sleep. It wasn't long before Dean followed suit, grounded by the rumble of the Impala and the comfort of his kid brother.

:::

Dean's mind slogged slowly back to consciousness. For a moment it felt like he was still dreaming. He could have sworn his eyes were open, but there was nothing there. He couldn't see. His breath quickened as his mind rebelled against the darkness, fingers creeping up to wipe at his distant eyes. Before they could make their way to his face, his left hand caught in a tangle of hair, disturbing the head that lay on his lap.

The weight pressed against him shifted, curling tighter around his leg.

It had been years since they'd shared the back seat like this, but Dean had no trouble recognizing the warm, cuddled form of his little brother.

Dean cursed himself for panicking. _Again_.

But when Sammy didn't settle back to sleep, Dean started to worry.

His shirt fluttered against his stomach and he frowned. The car jerked suddenly, and Dean couldn't help but jump himself, fingers tightening against Sammy's head and shoulder.

His shirt fluttered again, tickling his stomach, as Sammy squirmed in his grasp.

"S'mmy?" he asked, confused at his brother's rough attempt to break free.

Sammy froze.

A soft wind brushed his side before a hand grazed his shoulder and he fought to stay focused on the here and now and not the invisible and inaudible. Reaching out to his right, Dean smacked his fingers against something distinctly skin-like. He winced, asking uncertainly if it was his father. Sure enough, the nod in his palm promised, he'd just smacked his father in the face. _Hehe…oops?_ Dean traced his hand down to the safety of his father's shoulder, waiting as John slowly untangled him from his brother and drew him out of the car. As much as Dean hated being passive like this, he knew better than to try to help. He could tell from the sluggish curl of his fingers that his fist was swollen from yesterday's bout with the Impala and the last thing he needed was more injuries.

He felt himself hauled over uneven ground, boots banging off of things he couldn't begin to perceive. They went up a few stairs, steered carefully through what he could only assume was a room, and finally plopped onto something that gave slightly beneath him. It wasn't a bed, he didn't think.

But before he could really be sure, he was passed once more to an unknown person. Immediately his hands went to their face, tracing the semi-familiar features up to an all-too-familiar mop of hair.

Relaxing ever so slightly, he traced his hands down the line of Sammy's arm, took hold of his little brother's wrist, and sunk into himself. He was sitting still, and he was with his brother, who seemed to have some semblance of an idea of what was happening. What did that mean? It meant Dad had stashed them somewhere safe and gone to fix things.

Not that he had any idea where they were. It was summer, so no need to stay in one place while he and Sammy went to school. That meant he couldn't remember which town they'd last blown through. They were all blending together, a blur of Sammy's complaints and Dad's orders and a hundred different motel rooms that all smelled equally bad.

So which hunter's house were they at? He had no idea. He didn't know where they'd come from or how long they'd driven, just that they were on a couch somewhere in the US (he hoped) with absolutely nothing to do but wait.

His brain curdled at the thought.

Wait? For hours and hours and hours on end? With nothing but his own dirty, spiraling thoughts to keep him busy? He was so dead.

Unconsciously, one hand moved forward to tug at his shirt, the other loosening slightly on his brother's wrist.

So… what to do? Hangman was clearly out of the question, though that was the way of all games, really. He could mentally sing through everything Zepplin had ever done, but that would just make him want to listen to the albums, which was really not an option right now. He could see how much detail he could remember from his night last week with the local waitress. What was her name? Becca? Becky? Betty? Berta?

Something landed softly in his lap, jolting him from his thoughts.

Instantly Dean's non-grounding hand moved to explore the object. It was square and hard and… opened? No, seriously, there were pages inside. His brother had handed him a book. With realization came annoyance: _I'm fucking _blind_, Sammy. What the hell do you think I can do with a book_?

But Sammy was busy pulling at his fingers, unfurling his grip and holding his hand open, palm up.

Dean tilted his head, useless eyes searching for his little brother. _What are you doing?_

Then Sammy's finger rested in the middle of his right palm, cushioned by the muscle beneath his middle finger. Slowly it began to move, tracing an arc toward his thumb, then another down to the heel of his hand. Finally it slid back up to it starting point.

Dean frowned, body struggling to take in as much information as possible from the next shape his brother traced on his outstretched palm. It started and stopped at the same point as the previous one.

Wait. Was that supposed to be an 'O?'

Dean leaned closer as Sammy traced another large circle, then something that Dean's ecstatic brain interpreted as a 'K.'

Sammy guided his palm back over onto the cover of the book, letting it rest there for a minute before he repeated the process.

"Book," Dean whispered, his inner self cheering as Sammy placed his brother's palm against his baby-smooth cheek and nodded. He could feel his brother's massive dimples beneath the heel of his thumb.

Almost before he could celebrate his victory his hand was guided to something close to the floor. This object wasn't as easy to identify, but with Sammy's palm-writing it made sense. "Shoe." He was touching his brother's shoe.

Only in the deafblind universe would Dean be grateful that he was touching his brother's nasty, smelly sneakers.

Wait. Smelly?

Dean raised his hand to his nose, sniffing softly.

Fighting down the panic that rose when he failed to faint from the stench, Dean struggled to focus on his brother's excited spellings.

Looked like his sight and hearing weren't the only things missing.

:::

But really, the lack of one more sense was quickly forgotten in his frustration. Dean had never been a patient person, especially when it came to learning. Half the reason he didn't take school seriously was because he had to wait for everyone else. Sure, in some subjects, like Science, he was the one running to catch up. But when it came to things he knew well, like algebra, he was suddenly painfully bored. Why did he have to wait for the rest of the class to learn with him? Not his fault he was the smartest, best looking kid in class.

But he tried to be patient with Sammy's words, he really did. Even when things ran together or he couldn't remember how many arches Sammy had drawn, or when there were too many letters for his brain to process, he tried to stay calm. Sure, curses slipped out now and again, but that was par for the course. He just had to keep reminding himself that this was Sammy. It wasn't his fault. Dean could _do _this; he just had to have it drawn again. They were just simple mistakes, nothing to get worked up over.

Then Sammy started acting weird. Every now and then his fingers would fall away, sometimes mid-word, even, and the outside world would fade away. At first Dean thought someone had come to talk to them, disturbing their game, but it kept happening. Every time Dean got really, really sick of this stupid game, this stupid situation, this stupid fucking _void_, Sammy would stop.

But why? What was with the kid? It wasn't like him to back down from a challenge, especially one that required as much thinking as this. Any chance to exercise that freakishly large brain of his. But this stopping and starting for no good reason (that Dean could sense, anyway) was bizarre. There had to be something going on that Dean wasn't getting.

Finally he broke down and asked. Not with his freaky, too-loud, deaf-person's voice, but with his brother's own code.

Fumbling his hand around his brother's palm, Dean counted his way out to the base of Sam's middle finger and started drawing. He formed the letters slowly, working hard to make them clear.

WHAT/S/WRONG? he wrote, proud of himself when he started finding the starting point without too much trouble.

Sammy drew the signal for repeat into his palm and Dean couldn't help but frown. Really? You could _see_ it, Sammy; how could you not get it?

Or could he see it?

Dean tilted his brother's palm up toward his wrist, hoping that Sam was in a position where he could see what Dean was drawing.

This time Sammy didn't ask for the repeat, but he didn't start writing an answer back either. He just sat there, leaving Dean frustrated and alone.

_What the hell, Sammy_? _Talk to me, _Dean wanted to scream, but he settled for banging his palm against his brother's, trying to make him speak. There was no way for Dean to decipher his brother's sulky face right now. He needed to _talk._

Sammy's finger grazed over the starting point again and again, hesitant. This was either something he didn't want to say, or something he didn't know how to explain. If he just could have seen his face, Dean would have been able to tell which it was in an instant. But he couldn't. All he could do was focus on his brother's finger as it finally set off across his palm, drawing bold lines in Dean's darkened mind.

The letters were slower, clearer. Dean found himself tracing them in his mind, writing them across some internal blackboard. It wasn't perfect, but it helped.

SOUNDS. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Sammy's hand jerked in his and Dean paused, straining his ears futilely. He tightened his hand around Sammy's in reassurance (because it _so _wasn't fear).

This time he didn't need all of Sammy's words.

DAD.

Dean reached out, trying to make contact with the man who had abandoned him who knew how long ago. Sammy helped, guiding his hand to a familiar threadbare sleeve.

A hand clasped over his, huge and warm. For a second it was nice, reassuring, comforting even. Then it was gone.

Yep, definitely Dad.

He pulled his hand back to the safety of the couch, waiting as the world shifted around without him. It took too long for Sammy to come back, his finger tracing once more across Dean's palm.

Dinner? Okay, he could handle dinner. Assuming he didn't stab himself in the eye.

Then Sammy added a long line of garble, stopped, and pared his instructions down to four horrifying words.

WE/GO/TO/TABLE.

_Fuck_

He nodded his understanding, mentally steeling himself for the inevitable shift in his little reality.

Sammy moved around him, pulling Dean across the couch and making sure everything was in order. His OCD was actually kind of appealing at this point. At least Dean knew he wouldn't be stumbling onto something. At first, anyway.

Little arms pulled Dean to his feet and the whole world spun.

He had a hard time remembering what was up and what was down. The world seemed to spin around him, silent and black. The only thing that kept him grounded was his grip on Sammy's wrists, the gentle push of his brother's hands as they kept him upright.

Suddenly, the hands were gone and Dean was stumbling blindly forward, fingers clenching instinctively to keep his anchor from running away.

He struggled to calm his panic, determined to keep himself under control.

Sammy waited longer this time, his hands moving slowly enough that Dean could follow their movement. It wasn't pretty, he was sure, but he was moving forward on his own power. He trusted Sammy to steer him right, and he wasn't disappointed— but he could have kissed the chair when he finally reached it.

:::

Once he was successfully seated, his brother handed him a fork. A _fork_. A large, metal, pointy object that Dean could just as easily stab into his mouth as any of the orifices on his face that weren't meant for food. _Really,_ _Sammy?_

Sighing, he stabbed the fork in a generally downward direction until it hit something squishy. Stealthily, he walked his fingers down the utensil and into the wet, squishy substance. Maneuvering the fork one-handed while trying to explore his food was tricky business, but he'd be damned if he was going to let go of his brother.

He would have killed just to be able to smell it.

Carefully he worked free a piece of the mucousy thing on his plate and brought it to his mouth. The journey was mostly uneventful. His eyes and nose remained unscathed, though the skin of his cheek squirmed under the unidentified dampness.

Chewing, he slowly realized just how screwed he was.

There was no taste to the stuff, just a slimy, vomit-inducing texture that slithered across his tongue and down his throat. He could have been eating slugs for all he knew.

Oh. That was a bad thing to think about.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, mind focused on keeping whatever he had just swallowed in his stomach where it (hopefully) belonged.

Sammy pulled on his other hand, spreading his palm and ordering him to eat.

_No way in hell_. He shook his head.

Sammy tried again.

Dean set down his fork, hoping it looked more like a proper action and less like he'd accidentally misjudged the distance between his hand and the table.

He could feel Sammy's unease, but he was grateful that the brat let it be.

Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts for the remainder of the meal, a situation he wasn't so thrilled with. Some things were meant to be hidden behind walls in deep mazes and never disturbed.

At a loss for other things to do, he stopped to take stock of his day. He was deaf, blind, and pretty much mute. He didn't know if they had words for not being able to taste or smell anything, but if they did, he was those too. Maybe it would be easier if he went by the fact he could still feel? It was all he had left.

That motherfucking witch.

Well, that was something to think about for a while. What was the most accurate description of the bitch that had done this to him?

How much profanity could he fit in one description? Maybe he could beat George Carlin on this one.

:::

So he'd played the creative blaspheme game in his mind for the rest of his meal. He would have loved to have heard Pastor Jim's reaction to the results. Then again, he would have loved to have heard Pastor Jim at all.

But no, here he was, being drawn out into the yard by his little brat of a brother. He didn't want to wander around outside. Hell, he didn't want to wander at all. He just wanted to curl up on the couch and try to sleep his way out of this senseless hell-hole.

Sammy had different ideas. The little brat had it in his head that Dean needed to be practicing his hand-talking-thingy, so he dragged Dean across the yard, back and forth through the space, to touch grimy surface after grimy surface and have it named for him. It didn't matter how good Sammy was at their weird little sign language, Dean was getting tired. Sure, at the height of the afternoon (morning?) he'd not only been able to understand Sammy's description of the PIECE/OF/SHIT/BUICK, he'd even had it in him to laugh. Now, though, he was having a hard time understanding single-word messages and spending more time stumbling across the yard than actually walking.

He was hoping that maybe Sammy would notice. Maybe he'd bring Dean in from the increasing chill and let him sleep in peace. Maybe he'd take him in and cure him?

He wasn't sure what made his brother come in. It might have been their Dad, it might have been Bobby, or it might have been sense coming to make a surprise visit. He didn't give a shit, really. He was just grateful when his butt hit the couch and his head found purchase against a cushion.

Before his mind could begin to settle from the focus of moving into some semblance of rational thought, he fell into the oblivion of sleep. Idly some part of his dreaming mind wondered at how little it differed from the world he stumbled through when he was awake.

**AN: The ever wonderful ****hopeintheashes**** beta'd this chapter, so she's responsible for the awesome parts. The mistakes, as always, are mine. Sorry for the long wait. **


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